


A Sick Body is a Prison

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Colds, Detroit Red Wings, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Rookies, Sickness, being sick, mentoring, taking care of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-16 23:56:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5845897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rookies are to be taken care of in sickness or in health. Written per reader request.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sick Body is a Prison

“A healthy body is a guest chamber for the soul: a sick body is a prison.”—Francis Bacon, Sr. 

A Sick Body is a Prison

In the middle of the night, Hank was awakened by what sounded like a cat coughing up—or possibly suffocating on—a particularly massive fur-ball. Mumbling blearily, he swiped the goo of sleep from his eyes, combing the room for some sign of an asphyxiating or merely forcefully hacking feline before he remembered that not only did he not own a cat but he had never done so. 

He had just enough time to wonder what had made the noise that had jolted him out of dreamland when the sound of coughing—slightly muffled by the wall in between—echoed from the guest room next store, where his rookie, Gustav Nyquist, was sleeping, unless he was being kept awake by those horrible coughs that had to be coming from him. 

Deciding to check on Gus to make sure he didn’t need a bag of Halls or a box of Kleenex, Hank rolled out of bed, carefully folding the blankets around Emma so she wouldn’t awaken from the cold, although she was such a sound sleeper that Hank had always suspected she could snore through a nuclear war. After sliding into his moccasins, he padded to the door, which he opened as silently as possible and crept out of, closing the door softly in his wake, walked the few feet that separated the two doors, and knocked gently as a whisper on the one that led into the guest room Gus used. 

“Come in.” Gus’ answer opened and ended with a cough. As Hank entered, switching the lights from off to a dim setting that cast an eerie, almost haunted palor over Gus’ cheeks, Gus, fiddling in a rather sheepish fashion with his comforter, asked, “Did I wake you and Emma up?” 

“Emma could sleep through World War III.” Hank crossed over to sit on Gus’ mattress. Ruffling Gus’ damp hair, he went on, “As for me, kid, I’d rather be awakened when you’re sick so I can take care of you than go on sleeping.” 

“I’m not sick.” The lie in Gus’ statement was revealed as he spoke when he wiped snot away from his nose with the cuff of his plum-and-maroon striped pajama sleeve. 

Snatching a Kleenex from the box on the nightstand, Hank chose to ignore Gus’ feeble protest, and instead ordered as he extended the tissue toward Gus’ face, “Blow.” 

“Do I have to, Z?” Sniffling, Gus studied the Kleenex with a wariness that suggested he feared its imminent explosion. 

“Of course you do.” Hank massaged the sweat-soaked nape of Gus’ neck with the hand that wasn’t busy holding the tissue. “It’s not hygienic to use your sleeve like a tissue, you know that, Gus, and, anyway, it will leave slimy booger stains all over your pajamas. Do you really want to explain to people how you got those?” 

“Not as if I parade about in public in my pajamas.” Gus coughed. “Tissues scratch until the skin under my nose turns all red and chapped, and all the lotions that you’re supposed to be able to put on to soothe the chapped skin just make it hurt more.” 

With a rustle, Hank leaned nearer to Gus and pressed the Kleenex as lightly as possible under Gus’ nose, repeating, “Blow.” 

Once Gus had finally obeyed, Hank tossed the dirty tissue into the trash can by the nightstand as Gus muttered, “I hate January and February. Those two months are like one long cold that I can never recover from for me, and everything is so gray that it’s hard not to feel extra sick and tired.” 

Knowing that Gus would love the chill, the wind, the ice, and the snow again as soon as he recovered from this cold that—whatever Gus’ sick mind believed to the contrary at the present would not in fact last for the remainder of winter—Hank squeezed Gus’ shoulder and murmured, “I’m going to get you a bag of Halls and a thermometer from the hall bathroom, because I think you’re running a fever.” 

As Gus emitted a faint whimper at the mention of a thermometer, which Hank didn’t blame him for doing since having a metal tube stuck in your mouth when you were sick was immensely unpleasant, Hank patted him on the back before stepping out into the corridor. Heading down the carpeted hallway toward the bathroom at the far end, he remembered how he had been similarly sick during his rookie year and how Steve Yzerman had cared for him…

Buried in blankets in a hotel bed that was comfortable without being comforting—because it wasn’t really his bed; he was just passing through it, and it had already been used by a thousand strangers before him, just as it would be slept in by a thousand more once Hank had left for the next destination on what felt like an interminable road trip—Hank massaged his throbbing temples. 

His head felt as if it had been replaced with one giant ball of snot. Where once he had believed his brains were stored, he had come to the conclusion that there dwelt a hundred cavities that had all swelled up with mucus, none of which he could clear out no matter how many times that he blew his nose. 

As a spasm of coughs tore through his body, Hank wished that he wasn’t alone. He glanced at the neon numbers aglow on the alarm clock resting on his nightstand and groaned when he saw that it would be at least forty-five minutes before Pavel, his roommate, returned to the hotel room from the evening service he was attending at an Orthodox church. Hoping that Pavel, who had explained to Hank in the past that Orthodox churches unlike Protestant and Catholic churches with pews for everyone only had benches that were reserved for the elderly and the infirm while the masses had to stand throughout the whole liturgy, was aching as much as he was, because he suspected that Pavel, despite ardent arguments to the contrary, was the one who had given him this cold, since Pavel had been coughing up a lung and blowing his nose with a sound reminiscent of a foghorn all week. 

A knock on the door wrenched him out of his contemplation of the misery he wished Pavel was suffering, and he called as loudly as he could with a congested nose, “Come in.” 

Steve entered, closing the door soundlessly behind him, and settled himself beside Hank on the bed, commenting, “I heard you coughing as I was going back to my room. How are you feeling, Hank?” 

“Good.” Hank, who hated showing any weakness in front of his stoic captain, tried to inject as much firmness as possible into his tone but was undermined by his own body when another series of coughs rattled through him. 

“If that’s how you sound when you’re good, I’d hate to hear what you sound like when you’re feeling bad.” Steve’s lips twitched wryly, as he brushed the hair away from Hank’s forehead   
and placed his cool hand across the clammy skin he had just exposed. 

“You’re freezing, Stevie.” Shivering in part because of the coldness Steve’s hand carried and in part because his nerves were so raw that any touch felt like torture, Hank jerked away from Steve. 

“No, you’ve got a fever.” With one palm, Steve stroked Hank’s back (and Hank was grateful that his woolen pajamas provided a buffer between their flesh so that his nerves weren’t scraped by Steve’s skin and he didn’t have to feel the iciness of Steve’s touch this time), while the other hand rummaged around in his polo shirt pocket, withdrawing a bottle of Tylenol. Dumping two tablets into Hank’s palm, he ordered, “Take these. They’ll reduce your fever.” 

Grabbing a glass of water off his nightstand, Hank swallowed both pills with a gulp of water to wash them down. Afraid that Steve might leave him now that he had taken the medicine, he asked, a note of desperation edging his voice, “Will you stay with me until Pav returns? It’s lonely without my roommate.” 

“Of course.” One of Steve’s hands drifted up to squeeze Hank’s shoulder. “I’ll stay here as long as you want me to, Hank.” 

Emerging from the warren of his memory, Hank realized that he had arrived at the bathroom. Opening the medicine cabinet, he pulled out a bag of cherry Halls, a thermometer, and a bottle of Motrin (for use if the fever he suspected Gus had was confirmed by the thermometer), which he placed on the tile counter as he filled a cup with water. Then, carrying the cup of water in one hand while the other somehow managed to cling to the Halls, the thermometer, and the Motrin, Hank made his way back down the hallway to Gus’ room. 

Gus, curled up against his pillows, stirred as Hank entered his bedroom. When Hank reached his bed and held out the thermometer for Gus to take in his mouth, Gus let out a low moan, and, clenching his jaw, turned his face away from Hank. 

“Look at me.” With ginger fingers on Gus’ chin, Hank guided his rookie’s face back toward him. Tapping him tenderly on the cheek, Hank commanded, “Open up, scamp. I’ve got to take your temperature before I go giving you any medicine.” 

“It’s just over the counter stuff,” grumbled Gus, but Hank took advantage of his open mouth to slip the thermometer under his wagging tongue. 

As Gus submitted to having his temperature taken, Hank carded his fingers through Gus sweaty hair, humming a soothing cadence to try to calm and comfort his rookie. Once the thermometer was done getting a read of Gus’ temperature, Hank slid it out from between’s Gus’ tightly-pressed lips, checked the number displayed, and said, “A hundred on the dot. Let’s get some Motrin in you.” 

Unscrewing the cap from the medicine bottle, Hank poured a tablet into Gus’ hand and then lifted the water cup to Gus’ lips, so Gus could wash the pill down with a few sips. Once Gus had finished with the water, Hank placed the medicine and the cup on the nightstand before offering a Halls to Gus, which Gus accepted, ripping off the wrapper and throwing it into the garbage. 

“Sorry about waking you up, Hank.” Gus flushed as he rolled into the pose he typically assumed when he was about to fall asleep. 

“Never apologize for being sick.” Hank patted Gus’ back. “If you need me again, just wake me up, all right?” 

“I won’t need to.” Gus’ words were muffled by his pillow. “My coughing will do it for me.”


End file.
